


Match

by winwinism



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22921546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winwinism/pseuds/winwinism
Summary: Jaehyun starts meeting up with omegas from the hot new Hybrid dating app, aboMatch™️. Sicheng suffers.
Relationships: Dong Si Cheng | WinWin/Jung Yoonoh | Jaehyun
Comments: 19
Kudos: 255
Collections: Winwin Fic Fest Round 1





	Match

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from the [Winwin Fic Fest](https://twitter.com/wwficfest):
>
>> Jaehyun and Sicheng are an unexpected friendship, everyone believing they were mates when Sicheng was deemed an Omega and Jaehyun an Alpha. But, its not that. And maybe every time Jaehyun goes on aboMatch™️ and matches up with other omegas going on complementary outings, Sicheng’s heart tears just a little. Just a little.
> 
> Thank you to the anonymous prompter for the prompt, and especially to the mods for hosting this event! 

Sicheng is watching a dance video Ten sent him on his handheld SmartScreen, feet kicked up on another of the kitchen’s chairs, when the Pod’s door clicks and slides open. “Jung Jaehyun,” announces an automated, feminine-sounding voice through the Pod’s surround-sound system. Sicheng doesn’t need to be told. He can smell him. 

“Fuck, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” Jaehyun says as the door slides closed behind him. Sicheng pauses the video and looks up. There are bags under his eyes, and he throws aside his briefcase to loosen his crumpled tie. “Law school was a mistake. I’m not cut out for this.” 

“As long as you can fool your superiors into thinking otherwise,” Sicheng says mildly. Jaehyun undoes the top few buttons of his shirt, and Sicheng swallows at the pale triangle of chest that’s revealed. (Like he hasn’t seen him nearly-naked a hundred times before. Living with Jaehyun is exhausting.) “Kept late while blazing your trail towards justice?”

“Nah, I was just out for a coffee for three hours. Fucking yes they kept me late.” Jaehyun slumps down on the couch past the doorway, belly-up, and twists his head to peer at Sicheng over the cushioned armrest. “What’re you up to? Have you eaten?”

“Not yet.” Sicheng’s lips curve downwards. He doesn’t have an excuse. It’s not like he wasn’t hungry, but apparently waiting around for Jaehyun to get back from work like an omega house-husband is something he considers fun. “I was thinking ramen, though. They just added some new flavors.”

Jaehyun clicks his tongue. “Man, you know those InstaMeals are full of junk, right?”

“Yes, Jaehyun,” Sicheng says. The meals produced by Pod Corporation’s food delivery service are not engineered for a complex nutritional profile--or, at least, not the ones in Pod Complexes this end of Seoul. Sicheng can’t cook for shit, though, so he orders them a lot. He would make a terrible house-husband. 

“You’d think a dancer like you would be more conscientious of that,” Jaehyun goes on, talking to the Pod’s curved, milky-white ceiling. They’ve been over this. “I don’t get it. Anyway, I don’t wanna see you getting heart disease before forty, so--”

“Is after forty okay?” Sicheng wonders. 

“Hell no,” Jaehyun says. “You’re never allowed to get heart disease.” 

“Fine.” At forty, they’ll probably both be married. Sicheng wonders if they’ll still be friends. “I wasn’t planning on it.” 

Jaehyun twists to grin at him, and Sicheng grimaces, as if that will stop the flush that inevitably rises in his face. His body is very troublesome, and seems determined to betray all sorts of inconvenient things. Then Jaehyun’s eyes alight on his foot, and they narrow. 

“Shit, Sicheng--” He rolls over and stands, crossing the Pod to the kitchenette where Sicheng sits. “Your foot! What happened?” 

Sicheng eyes his elevated right foot, which is wrapped in a dark blue brace with cooling packs embedded in the fabric. “Ah, just a minor sprain.” The incident from earlier that day is embarrassing to recall--he wasn’t even rehearsing anything difficult with the company, just toying with some new choreography when he fell on his ass. “Should be fine in a week or two.” 

Jaehyun crouches in front of him, ghosting a hand over his ankle as if he could possibly help. Sicheng tries not to flinch when he touches bare skin. “Sucks, man. Does it hurt? What about the exhibition--that’s coming up, right?”

“A little over a month.” Sicheng bites his lip. “It’ll be fine. Might put me somewhat behind schedule, but I’ll manage.” 

Jaehyun lets out a long breath. “Okay. Rest and recover first, okay? Don’t go making it worse.”

As if he hadn’t already gotten the same lecture from Kun, the company’s director, Sicheng nods. “Of course, Dad.”

“Please never compare me to your dad again. Do you need anything? Pain-relief tea? Hard drugs? I’ll do that, but I’m drawing the line at InstaMeals.”

Sicheng rolls his eyes. “I can walk, thank you. Also, Ten’s filling in for me at the studio the rest of the week, we already talked about it.” 

“Good.” Jaehyun sinks back on his ankles, looking up at Sicheng with an expression that makes him wish he could retreat into his body like a turtle. Maybe he’ll take Jaehyun up on the hard drugs. “Hey. I’m starving; maybe I can go pick up some ramen, if that’s what you want. _Not_ an InstaMeal, though--something actually made in a kitchen by, like, humans.”

Sicheng’s lips quirk. “I’d like that.” 

Jaehyun returns his smile, dimples that warm Sicheng’s chest forming in his cheeks. Then it drops, and he averts his gaze. He throws a palm over his forehead, mutters, “Shit.” 

The warmth in Sicheng’s chest fades just as quickly. “What?”

“I forgot,” Jaehyun groans. “I’m meeting someone in, like, half an hour. Fuck.” He looks over his shoulder at the digital clock above the Pod’s door. “Less than that, now.” 

“Oh,” Sicheng says without inflection. His chest is starting to feel very cold indeed. “Who is it?”

“Someone from aboMatch.” Sicheng’s brow furrows, and Jaehyun rushes to explain: “Y’know, that app where you submit your scent profile and they find your biological soulmate. It’s the new thing. Dunno if you’ve heard.” He stands, clapping his hands on his knees. “I’m _really_ sorry to be ditching you in your time of need.” 

“It’s fine,” Sicheng says, head whirling. Scent profile? Biological soulmate? He schools his face into neutrality, says, “It’s not really a time of need, anyway. I can order delivery myself.”

Jaehyun wags his finger at him. “From a place with a kitchen, okay?”

“With humans in it. You’re understood perfectly.” 

The accusatory finger turns to a thumbs up. “Cool. Now, I _really_ have to take a shower.” 

With that, Jaehyun makes his unceremonious exit, dashing up the steps embedded in the Pod’s far wall to his upper-level bedroom, glass partition sliding shut after him. The glass turns frosty and opaque after a moment, ensuring Jaehyun’s privacy. Sicheng looks down at his lap, and curses the sick feeling that starts to curl his stomach. His appetite is as good as gone. 

“AboMatch?” Hendery pauses mid-stretch, neck straining up from where he’s bent over with forearms planted on the studio’s panelled floor. “Isn’t that, like, the hot new technofascist thing for Hybrids?”

Sicheng looks over the studio from his seat, arms crossed and right leg locked in a straight line in front of him. He’s come to monitor the rehearsal even if he can’t participate, since he can’t afford to miss any developments in choreography for the exhibition. He figures his observations will be helpful, besides. “Technofascist?” he says, frowning. 

“Yeah, like--” Hendery emits a noise from the back of his throat as he draws out of his stretch. “Using technology to promote fascism.”

“I know what it means.” 

“Not even that,” Ten says, contorting into a stretch beside Hendery. “Weird borderline-eugenics marketing aside, the algorithm is probably all junk. App’s just another excuse to farm personal data.” 

“But why?” Hendery asks. “What would advertisers use a list of scent compounds for?” 

“I don’t even know. Something evil, probably.”

“Marketing scented shampoos?” Sicheng suggests. 

“Hmm, maybe.” Ten tosses his head back and fans his neck, smirking. “Though I don’t need an ad to tell me lavender goes with honey.” 

Hendery snorts. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but Sicheng wonders if he isn’t blushing, too. 

“Plus,” Ten goes on, “the lab work requirement isn’t cheap. The elitism is half the draw. Put a bunch of gullible, economically-cozy fucks on the same app and of course they’ll think their dates are suddenly _so_ much better than before.” 

Sicheng’s frown deepens. Ten notices, but doesn’t have the decency to look apologetic.

“Oh, don’t tell me you signed up for that crap.”

“Not me. Jaehyun.” It slips out before Sicheng can think better of it. 

Ten’s mouth pops open, eyes wide with thinly-veiled amusement. “Wow. Your roommate, huh?” 

“Doesn’t he work for the government?” Hendery says. “Maybe they get discounts on the lab work.”

“Maybe, yeah,” Sicheng mutters. He wishes he hadn’t brought it up. Ten is staring at him, and Sicheng shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. 

“Anyway,” Hendery says, eyes flickering between the two of them, “I heard it’s less about romantic compatibility, for a lot of people, than it is sexual satisfaction. Dunno how much of that can be explained away as a placebo.” 

Ten snorts. “You underestimate Hybrids, my sweet beta child.”

“What about Hybrids?” says Yangyang, who takes that moment to bound into the studio. The subject drops instantly--Ten stands to lecture their youngest member about a whole list of things, starting with taking too long in the bathroom--but it plagues Sicheng for the rest of the rehearsal. How could it not? 

Jaehyun has gone on dates before. He knows this. And naturally, it was only a matter of time before he started getting serious. He has no right to be upset. 

Sicheng’s mood stays dark, and he rides the MagRail home feeling as exhausted as if he’d rehearsed for hours. 

Jaehyun goes on another date the following week. Sicheng doesn’t ask him about it until he re-enters the Pod, the stink of another omega clinging to him. That first night, Sicheng was pretending to sleep behind his partition when Jaehyun had returned, and probably for the better--he was depressed enough without having to scent Jaehyun’s omega date on his clothes. 

Sicheng swallows his minute-rice porridge--a late-night snack--and marks his spot on the page of his novel with a thumb. “How’d it go?”

“Good, good.” Jaehyun is weary, but Sicheng can scent the satisfaction on him under cloying omega. “She was nice. Super sweet. Totally forgot to tell you about it, but girl from last week--woman, I should say--she was a bit prickly, to be honest. She got pretty peeved at me being late.” He shudders. “ _Really_ don’t think Type A personalities are for me.”

“Wait.” Sicheng’s mind stutters. “You didn’t see her again?”

“Oh, yeah. I see how that could have been not-obvious.” He huffs out a laugh, scrubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not magic, that aboMatch stuff.” 

“Right,” Sicheng says hollowly. He thinks about asking if he’ll see the woman from tonight again, and thinks better of it. “Well, I hope you have fun with it anyway.”

“Me too.” Jaehyun sighs. “It’s been, like, five hundred years since I got laid. It was about time.”

Sicheng removes his brace the next day, with doctor’s orders to “take it easy”. Sicheng does so by partaking in simple stretches and observing rehearsal, then taking the MagRail, rather than walking, from the SM Performing Arts Center to the dance studio where he and Ten teach. 

The pair of them teach introductory modern dance classes to small squadrons of children, mostly from upper-class families and without any real passion for dance. But the money is decent, with their educational and performing backgrounds enabling them to demand a substantial fee for their services, and the kids are adorable enough. 

He notices something off, though, when he counts off his students; he notes it for later and carries on with class as usual. The kids are enthusiastic about his return, hardly to Sicheng’s surprise--Ten, who teaches the slightly more advanced class at this studio, is a harsh master. (Sicheng gets good results, but he’s too soft to really crack the whip on anyone but himself.) 

Sicheng meets Ten at the water cooler outside the practice room, sending the children off to their parents with smiles and waves. “I didn’t see Minseo today,” he tells him. Minseo is one of his better students, enthusiastic and good enough to be promoted to Ten’s class, and she hadn’t missed a day yet. “Was she there this past week?”

Ten freezes, then looks at him grimly. His eyes slide over to where the last handful of stragglers are stumbling out of the studio, chatting animatedly with their guardians. “She dropped out yesterday.”

“That’s odd. Did her parents say why?”

The studio door slams shut, sending one last gust of cool autumn air into the hallway. “They did.” 

Ten’s throat bobs. Sicheng waits, feeling worry growing in his chest. He knows Ten isn’t the type to spare any details, but he’s hardly the type to be reluctant about it, either. “Well?”

“They were...concerned. About her exposure to a...non-traditional instructor.”

Sicheng’s worry turns to confusion, all of his thoughts about illness and injury melting blessedly away. “What do you mean?” 

“You’re unmated, and you live with an alpha.” The words spill out, and Ten’s jaw hardens. “I talked to Minseo’s mother. She said you were a bad influence.” 

Sicheng stares at him blankly. He drops his paper cup, spilling water on the carpet. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry. I know you liked her.” 

“Yeah, well. Is she joining your class, now?” 

Ten blinks at him, then makes a sound of disgust. “The fuck, Sicheng, what kind of person do you think I am? I told her she’d have to get her daughter dance lessons somewhere else. Wasn’t happy. Said she’d leave a bad review. Fuck ‘em. I can’t believe people like that still exist.” He laughs sardonically. 

“Oh.” Sicheng looks down, eyeing the dark splotch spreading at his feet. The knot of worry in his chest is gone, but some other feeling sweeps in to replace it, clogging his throat. Gratitude? He doesn’t know if he’s grateful, that Ten would turn away a student over something like that. Over him. Hell, he would’ve accepted Minseo’s fees for Ten’s class as consolation. 

He doesn’t notice the tears running down his face until one falls to his feet.

Ten clucks his tongue and reaches up to rub Sicheng’s back. “I’m sorry, baby. Don’t cry.” He produces a tissue from somewhere and presses it in Sicheng’s face; Sicheng grabs it, wiping away the tears with a scowl. 

It’s not that, he could say, but how would that make sense? It’s not _just_ that, not _just_ losing a student or being called non-traditional or morally corrupt--it’s everything. Maybe he’s been on the brink of tears for a while. He sobs, once, then feels stupid and suppresses the urge with a harsh sniff. 

“It’s horrible,” Sicheng says wetly. Ten coos, squeezes his shoulder. “Being a cliche.”

“You’re not a cliche.” Ten’s eyes are softer than Sicheng deserves, so he looks away. “Other people are cruel. And stupid and evil.”

Sicheng’s throat feels tight enough to burst. He tries to swallow it away and fails, and gives in: “I’m in love with him,” he says in an angry rush. “Isn’t that what they always say? This is why we can’t live together. Why we can’t be friends.” 

Ten’s thumb rubs steady circles between his shoulder blades. He’s silent as Sicheng’s breath slows, fists that he didn’t know were clenched loosening. 

“It will pass,” Ten murmurs. “You’ll be okay. It will pass.” 

Since he first presented, Sicheng has never used heat suppressants. The side effects are too numerous and too risky for a dancer like himself--lowered bone density, for one, could mean a career-ending injury, and fatigue and heart problems could restrict his potential. But he’s had since he was sixteen to get acquainted with his relatively mild heats, and he copes well enough. It’s only bad enough to necessitate isolation for less than a day, before and after which pads, painkillers, and cool washcloths are enough to get him through daily life without much trouble. 

There are, of course, risks to being an omega in his chosen profession. Sicheng and Ten, the only omegas in a troupe full of betas, track their cycles carefully, mapping out how they interact with performances and planning for any overlap. 

Ten’s a brave one, having once done a festival performance at the peak of his heat, placing first in the Male Hip Hop Solo category to boot. The secret, Ten confided, was marijuana. Lots of it. (“Edibles and oil rubs. Not smoked. Unless you want to shoot yourself in the lung.”) Since the formation of WayV Modern Dance Company, the pair of them have been lucky enough to avoid facing this problem head-on. 

Sicheng’s sprain heals, and he throws himself back into rehearsal with renewed vigor. He stays late at the studio, returning to the Pod later even than Jaehyun the overworked law clerk. 

The exhibition draws near: See The Vision, WayV’s first solo concert since joining the fleet of dance troupes under SM Performing Arts Center. Theirs is a small one, comprising only seven members and a single director, and they sport an unconventional style that incorporates their wide range of dance backgrounds. The exhibition is a chance to prove their worth, net donors, generally secure their status on the SMPAC roster. There’s a bit of pressure to not fuck it up. 

Sicheng looks at the dates on his Heat Tracker app and pointedly stuffs the anxiety that threatens to arise. At twenty-four, he can be reasonably sure that what’s expected is what will happen. He might have a few pre-heat sweats the night of, but the worst won’t come until the next day. He has nothing to worry about. 

“He’s coming, right?” Ten says. 

The makeup artist, a shaggy-haired guy named Yuta, paints a black sweep across Sicheng’s eyelid while Sicheng stares unblinkingly into the bulb-rimmed vanity. Their clothes for the first piece--Ten and Sicheng’s duet, choreographed to a sweeping orchestral arrangement by Kun--are simple and drably colored, clinging loosely to their limbs like a saggy second skin. The makeup is minimal too, despite Yuta’s protests. He seems to think Sicheng would look good with glitter. 

The Vision isn’t a stage play, Ten informed him. It’s stark and unsexy on purpose. The Arts District has enough glitter and pomp--they want to send a message, that less can be more. 

Or something like that. Sicheng retraces the steps to the choreography in his head, even knowing they’re well past muscle memory with all the hours he’s put in. He feels jittery and light--not only from nerves. 

“Of course he is,” he tells Ten. “He’s not that horrible of a person.”

Ten sucks his teeth. Sicheng thinks he’s confided too much these past few weeks, and now Ten seems to hate Jaehyun for perceived slights against his partner. 

“Anyone who doesn’t fall in love with you is an idiot,” Ten declared one night, tongue loosened by soju. 

“It’s not like he could, anyway,” Sicheng said. “He likes women. Female omegas.”

“Because he’s an idiot.” 

Sicheng knows it’s only to make him feel better, anyway. He endures Ten’s efforts politely, knowing they’re made with good intentions. 

“Didn’t bring a date, did he?” Ten asks. Sicheng flinches. 

“No.” 

“Good.” Ten taps the SmartScreen on the counter in front of him, checking the time. The seventh hour of the evening is heart-stoppingly near. “Or I’d have to punch him in the face.”

“An ex?” Yuta asks, suddenly. Sicheng blinks. The makeup artist’s grey contacts are eerie, but he doesn’t have much of a scent. Beta, probably.

“No,” Sicheng says sourly. “Just a friend.”

Yuta’s eyebrows lift. “Oh?” He bends to paint the other eye. “Are you hoping for something?” 

“No.” He holds still, reminding himself that Yuta couldn’t possibly feel the rapid beat of his heart. 

Yuta chuckles, finishing his eyelid with a flourish. “I’m sure he’ll be impressed. Either way.” 

He grins, and Sicheng decides right then that he wants out of that chair. 

Jaehyun would be wearing a dark blue suit jacket and pants with a devilish cut that hugs the thick muscle of his thighs. Sicheng left long before Jaehyun had the chance to put them on, of course, being the performer, but he knows those are the finest clothes he owns, and he would hardly attend a concert at the SMPAC in his work attire. His tie would match the ink black of his hair. He’d probably put some gel in it. Sleek, handsome, appearing older than his years, but in a good way. It’s why he commands authority so well, despite being mild-mannered at all times except when possessed by righteous anger. 

Sicheng’s cheeks are red, and he burrows his face in his forearms in a store room backstage. Maybe he’ll ruin his makeup and have to face Yuta again. Maybe he’ll miss his cue entirely. 

Hendery spies him through the cracked-open door and throws it open, hurrying to Sicheng’s side atop a crate of some unknown supplies. “Sicheng! Kun’s looking for you--hey, are you alright?”

Sicheng lifts his head and carefully self-scans his face. No, he’s not crying, even though his face feels tight. He doesn’t think anything came off on his arms. “I’m fine. Just meditating.”

Hendery rubs his back. It’s a little weird to have someone younger than him do that, but he allows it. “Sicheng, you don’t meditate.” 

“I know.”

“You’ll be fine,” Hendery says, determined to be an echo of everything Ten does. They’re probably so happy together, Sicheng thinks bitterly, and realizes with a start that his heat is already starting to commandeer his brain. “I don’t know what you’re going through, but you’ve got this. ‘Kay?” 

Sicheng huffs, discarding the previous moment’s thought with a shred of guilt. “I should be comforting you. It’s your big debut.” 

“No,” Hendery says gently, “it’s ours. We’re all sharing the glory. And if my solo accidentally-on-purpose steals the show, we’ll share the glory from that too.”

“Your generosity is appreciated.” Sicheng hiccups. He stands, and for a heart-stopping moment, wobbles. “Do you think Ten has any edibles?”

“What?”

“Oh, nevermind,” Sicheng mumbles. They might not be together after all. 

Eleven minutes out from their cue, Sicheng confides to Ten with a shake in his voice. Ten is silent for a long moment, before he reveals that no, he does not have any edibles, and it would be too late for that now, anyway.

“You’re still in pre-heat,” he says, low and steady. “You don’t need drugs. What you need is something to clear your mind. A bucket of ice water. A pinch, a slap in the face.” 

“Oh,” Sicheng says. “Try the last one, then.”

Ten slaps him across the face. It stings like a motherfucker. Yuta sobs silently, but Sicheng refuses to let him touch up anything before they go out, because The Vision is harsh and minimalist and stark, and if anyone sees the outline of Ten’s hand on Sicheng’s cheek, let them think it was part of the show. 

A slap in the face works to clear one’s mind, kind of, at least temporarily. But dance liberates. It unleashes, it frees wholly. Sicheng’s dance is methodical and practiced, but not rigid; he flows like water between each movement and pose. The tension melts from his body. Kun’s arrangements meld with his sinew and hold him aloft. He feels Jaehyun’s eyes on him, and lets the feeling go. He has glory to seize in a trembling fist, more beauty to discover. It passes. 

Sicheng’s parents have long shirked the smog of the city for sprawling countryside villas and rural comforts. They disapproved when he left for Beijing, and then for Seoul, claiming that it was bad for his fragile health (he was a small child, before he sprouted in the latter half of his teens and assured them he wasn’t a runt), and that the city was too base for someone of his quality. Sicheng unrooted these beliefs with his love of dance, which he always loved a little more than the complete approval of his family. Just the tiniest bit more. It was enough. 

In university, he befriended an alpha named Jaehyun, who helped him learn Korean in exchange for Sicheng narrating to him all of the cheesy Mandarian Chinese dramas Jaehyun wanted to watch. Jaehyun’s parents lived in America, divorced and not on speaking terms within the last decade. He didn’t have an allowance or even a backup plan, arriving on scholarship. Upon entering law school, taking out sizeable loans for the trouble, there was no way he’d be able to afford a place in Seoul on his own. But Sicheng wanted to stay in Seoul, too, having found a second home in a ragtag group of dancers and a composer with a dream. The choice was obvious. 

The points of disapproval piled up. Moving to Seoul. Majoring in dance. Becoming a dancer by trade, rather than going into the family business. Moving in with an unmated alpha--one of poor quality, with no family or inheritance to speak of. His allowance was cut off. Sicheng figured there were worse things in life than having a silver spoon rudely removed from one’s mouth, and pressed on. 

Hendery throws himself on Sicheng the second they’re out of audience earshot. 

“You beautiful bastard,” he crows, flinging his arms around Sicheng’s sweat-drenched neck as the bastard in question gulps down water, crinkling the plastic bottle in his fist. “What was that? Huh? What was that?” 

“I don’t know,” Sicheng tells him. He stares at the light reflecting off of the floor’s varnish, throws the water bottle aside on autopilot. Hendery slips off of him, and he draws back his shoulders, feeling a smile creep across his face. He feels better than he has in--hell, months. Hot like the inside of the oven and like his soul has been flayed from his mortal coil, but good. He turns his smile on Hendery. “I think we did pretty good.”

Kun knocks on the dressing room’s open door. “Curtain call in thirty.” 

“I love you,” Hendery tells him. Kun cocks an eyebrow and stalks away. Hendery laughs. 

The afterparty is held at one of SMPAC’s galleries, a glittering hall lined with fresh specimens of modern art, decked out with ribbons for the occasion and populated with little round tables draped in white cloth that bear finger-sized pastries and hor’s d’oeuvres. The artists must make their appearance here, however weary they are after such a performance, because this is when their labors will begin to bear fruit. Potential patrons will linger here, seeking a glimpse of the dancers’ attention, dangling donations in their soft, manicured, fashionably gloved hands. The standing ovation will mean little if WayV can’t secure those. 

Sicheng runs a washcloth over his neck and a comb through his hair, ignores Yuta’s attempts to touch up his makeup, and throws on a plain suit, as do the others. He’s the first to burst through the doors to surprise and a smattering of applause, though. Sweat streams down the back of his collar, probably darkening the fabric. He feels great. In the mood for some pastries, and some fucking champagne. He goes for the first waitstaff with a trayful of the stuff and snatches a flute with a generous smile. 

“Sicheng,” a familiar voice calls, just loud enough to be heard, and he whirls. There. 

By the indoor fountain at the center of the gallery, with its tiers of glittering gold and basin full of coins, stands Jaehyun, looking exactly as he expected. Incredible. Enough to make any omega’s knees turn to jelly. But Sicheng isn’t just any omega, not anymore. 

Sicheng beams and crosses the hall, taking a gulp of champagne as he goes. It buzzes warmly down his throat. 

He sniffs the air as he draws closer--ten feet, then five. Something familiar permeates the air, unusually enticing and strong. Jaehyun smiles at him, and it’s okay. He throws his arms around Jaehyun wordlessly, probably spilling champagne into the fountain, and buries his nose into his shoulder. 

“Sicheng,” Jaehyun repeats, almost laughing. “Holy shit, dude. You were amazing out there. Could _not_ look away.”

Sicheng rock back and forth as he drags on the hug, drawing what he hopes are subtle inhalations of Jaehyun’s scent. “Jae…” He hums until it starts to turn into a groan. “You smell _really_ good.”

“Huh?” Then Jaehyun jerks away and out of his grasp, which isn’t supposed to happen. “What the fuck, you just poured champagne all over me.” 

Sicheng blinks. He draws his arm back and finds the flute empty, and Jaehyun’s scent now richy mingled with the sparkling wine. 

Jaehyun turns a few degrees, patting his back, and Sicheng sees it--the growing dark spot down his broad, suit-clad back and even below the belt. Oh, that’s embarrassing. Now he’s gone and done it. 

Unexpectedly, Jaehyun laughs. “Are you drunk? What’d they give you?” 

“Nothing,” Sicheng tells him honestly. “I just had a few sips.” He thinks on it for a moment, and decides to confess, “Actually, I’m going into heat.” 

The amusement fades from Jaehyun’s face. He averts his eyes, glances back. That does more than the cold water Sicheng splashed on his face a few minutes ago. Sicheng freezes too, suddenly unsure of whether he can trust himself to move or speak. 

“Oh,” Jaehyun says. “Well, that makes sense.” 

He looks awkward, standing there in his ruined jacket, and Sicheng hates it. 

“Hah, anyway.” Jaehyun peers along the walls of the gallery, identifies the restroom with a noticeable perk. “Gonna go try to...dry this shit off.” 

“Sorry,” Sicheng says meekly. 

“Don’t be.” He claps a hand on Sicheng shoulder as he goes. “It’s your day. You can do whatever the hell you want.” 

Some of Sicheng glow fades. He looks around at the patrons, in Jaehyun’s absence, and feels strongly like he’d rather be anywhere but here. 

One of the pieces on the gallery wall is blue. Just blue. Wide stripes of the stuff in a few shades, painted horizontally on a unnecessarily large, square canvas. Sicheng pretends to be engrossed as he examines it, and reads the little white placard on the side. _Blue_. Lucas Wong, 2020. Oil on canvas. 

He rolls the name around on his tongue. It sounds familiar, and then he remembers--a so-called art prodigy out of Hong Kong, who burst onto the scene at 19 and started selling paintings for millions before the art world could catch its breath. If Sicheng’s memory holds true, this is quite the prestigious piece he’s looking at. He looks back at it skeptically, and sips at his fresh flute of champagne. 

“Quite impressive,” a voice announces from behind him. Feeling it’s directed at him, Sicheng turns a few degrees to face him. 

The guy’s tall, ruddy-faced and young-looking, and he’s grinning broadly--very broadly, as his mouth is quite wide--as he very definitely addresses him. Sicheng’s eyebrows jump up, and he points back at the piece as if to confirm that’s what he’s referring to. The man sees this and shakes his head. 

“No, _you_ , silly.” He laughs, weirdly high-pitched compared to his speaking voice. “You’re Dong Sicheng. Really impressive, man.” 

“That’s me,” Sicheng confirms. He’s been avoiding confrontation for the past half hour through art appreciation, only getting approached twice, and never so boldly. He hasn’t seen Jaehyun again. Maybe he’s still drying his jacket. Maybe he left. Sicheng wouldn’t blame him.

“It was inspiring,” the man goes on. “I’ve been kind of in a rut lately, to be honest. Not to go all dumping shit--I mean, stuff--on you. But it’s true. So, yeah. Seeing that--seeing you up there--really made me feel like...like my ideas are flowing again, and I’m gonna crush that rut. You feel me?” 

His eyes go wide as he speaks. Sicheng can’t help but feel it’s genuine, and squirms a little under the sentiment. “Um, th-thanks.” 

“No, thank you.” He laughs again, then jerks a dismissive thumb towards the blue canvas in front of them both. “You see that crap? Rut on canvas. Definitely not gonna be doing _that_ when I get back in the studio.” 

Sicheng’s mind grinds to a halt. “Wait, you’re--”

“Lucas Wong.” He thumps his chest, and Sicheng’s jaw hangs for a moment before he snaps it shut. “That’s me. Don’t give me that look, I hate it. At least save it for when you see some of my _good_ pieces.” 

“I didn’t…” Sicheng falters. “No one said you would be here.” They should have, right?

“Nope! Not doing this for press. Just wanted to check it out. I mean, I can take all the inspiration I can get--and I sure as hell got it tonight.” He grins, white rows of teeth gleaming in the light. Then his smile falters, and his expression turns contemplative. “Anyway, I know I said it was crap, that’s on me. Hope you don’t take it as an insult that I’m donating the pieces here to your company.” 

“Donating…” Sicheng stares blankly. What can they do with overpriced wall art? Then it hits him. They can--

“Auction them off, whatever.” Lucas shrugs. “Or keep ‘em. They don’t really go with the neoclassical vibe you’ve got going in here, but I’m not gonna judge. If you want something better, just hit me up.” He makes the universal call-me gesture, and adds with another grin, “As long as you keep performing like _that_.” 

“Oh,” Sicheng says. “Thank you.” That really doesn’t cover it. He needs to get online, search up _Lucas Wong art market price_. He needs to tell Ten, and Kun, and the whole company and everyone on the SMPAC Board of Directors, too. He bows, somewhat awkwardly, because bowing isn’t really a commonly practiced form of etiquette anymore. “Thank you. So much.” 

“You’re welcome,” another, more feminine voice says, and Sicheng straightens from his bow. A comically small woman has appeared at Lucas’s side, looping one arm tight around his waist. She scrutinizes him for a moment, then levels a smile that transforms her entire face. “Who’s this gentleman, Yukhei?”

“Dong Sicheng, of course,” Lucas says, fondly meeting the woman’s gaze for a moment. “Dong Sicheng, this is the light of my life more colloquially known as my fiance, Song Yuqi.”

Sicheng shakes her hand, the one not currently gripping her significant other, then shakes Lucas’s hand for good measure. “Pleasure to meet you.” 

“Oh, I think it’s been mine,” she says lightly. “Which one were you, again? The one who did the spinny thingy?”

Lucas eyes widen, and he raises a fist to his face. Sicheng’s eyes catch on the half-faded red welts that loop his wrist. “That wasn’t necessary,” Lucas says, through an obviously fake cough.

“I was,” Sicheng informs her, regardless. “The spinny thingy is my favorite.” 

She brightens, and seems satisfied. 

Sicheng only realizes it once they’ve bid their adieus. The color in Lucas’s cheeks, the possessiveness and edge to Yuqi’s presence. Lucas isn’t only known as a once-teenaged prodigy. He’s an omega, a rare success in a field dominated by alphas and betas; and by his scent, also presently in heat. 

The welts, once Sicheng thinks about them a moment further, make Sicheng’s face hot, too. He’s been with alphas before--briefly, in short, unfortunate flings where Sicheng gets too attached and then discarded--but there are some things alphas and omegas in _relationships_ do that he’s never done. Things that require a certain high bar of trust. 

Sicheng has already cooled off quite a bit from earlier, and now his mood blackens further. Even without parading out affection, they’re so obviously happy. Sicheng spies them in another throng across the hall, now in animated conversation with Ten and Hendery. They seem nice, really, Yuqi’s surprising barb aside. Such a happy couple. He could vomit. 

Sicheng’s starting to think, as he checks his SmartScreen for the nth time, that he could get away with leaving right about now when he’s approached once more by a man in a suit. The guy gets his attention by clearing his _throat_ , of all things, and Sicheng nearly greets him with a venomous _what do you want_ that would be so unlike him. Except, upon appraisal, the man looks too meek and abashed by his own boldness for Sicheng follow through. 

“Evening,” he says in a voice as uneasy as he looks, “I’m Xiao Dejun. I was quite taken by your performance and th-thought I’d introduce myself.”

Sicheng furrows his brow at the name. It strikes him as familiar, but he can’t quite place where. “Dong Sicheng.” 

Dejun is about a head shorter than him, and his suit looks about ten times as expensive. Looking past the wobble in his smile, though, he’s obviously handsome. Fine, strong features. Grasping his hand, Sicheng takes a subtle inhale. Alpha. Unless Dejun has swept up the scent from elsewhere in the gallery--but that can’t be right. It wouldn’t be so concentrated. 

And he smells, Sicheng thinks with a brief rush of warmth, pretty damn good. 

“I know,” Dejun says perfunctorily, to Sicheng’s perfunctory self-introduction. “Actually, I’ve heard about you before tonight. Quite a bit. I hope I don’t seem strange saying so.”

Taken somewhat aback, Sicheng shakes his head. “I don’t follow, but no…”

Dejun clears his throat again. Maybe it’s an awkward habit. “It’s. Hardly material, though. Nothing I heard could’ve...prepared me.” He averts eye contact as he says, “You’re...intoxicating on stage. I had to work myself up all evening just to talk to you.”

Sicheng goggles at him. That kind of honesty--that kind of reaction at all, actually--he hadn’t expected. “Um...thank you?” Is that something that necessitates thanks? 

Dejun seems to sense his confusion, eyes darting back to his. “You have to know how intimidating you are. It’s not just me, or you’d have been fighting off suitors all night.” 

Sicheng chokes on his water (having long abandoned champagne, now plagued by a dry mouth). “Suitors,” he says, incredulous. 

“Indeed. I should confess,” Dejun says, even more meekly, “I had some insider information regarding this. My parents--surely you know of Xiao Corporation? They--we--are under a conglomerate, same as your parents’ company. Evidently, our parents are frequent business associates.” He huffs out a laugh at the same time that Sicheng’s stomach goes cold. “They got to talking about you, their promising young artist, suggested you were a bachelor…” He shrugs, as if it’s obvious. 

“They…” Sicheng reaches for sense, for what a normal family of _quality_ might do in this situation. “Told your parents, who told you.” Because Dejun talking to _Sicheng’s_ parents about him seems too absurd to think about. Sicheng hasn’t talked to his own parents in months. Hasn’t seen them since the first days of spring.

“Correct. Again, I hope I’m not, ah, weirding you out, or anything.” 

“You’re not,” Sicheng assures him, because if anything, his parents deciding to take an interest in his love life is what’s weirding him out. Dejun is just a good little heir doing his job. “You work for your parents’ company, I assume?”

“I do,” Dejun affirms. “I’m in accounting. Real exciting work, I know. But I do love the arts. I used to study piano, tried to write my own stuff. Sang a little. Wanted to do more with it, but, y’know.” He shrugs. “Duty called.” 

Sicheng doesn’t know. When duty called for him, he hightailed the other way with middle fingers flying. (As if he’s the type to flip _anyone_ off, let alone his parents, but for metaphor’s sake.) “Do you still play?” he asks instead. 

“Kinda? Work’s busy. Don’t really have the time.” He smiles suddenly, genuinely, for the first time since he’s approached Sicheng. “Outings like this, though, really put a fire under me. Makes me want to _make_ time for it.” 

“I’m glad,” Sicheng tells him. Genuinely. 

He feels a presence at his back, then, for the first time in over an hour. He doesn’t need to turn and look, doesn’t even need to think about it. He can smell him. 

“Me too,” Dejun says. “And I’m glad I finally caught you. You’re...even more breathtaking up close.” 

Sicheng blushes, can feel it spreading across his face. He can’t help it. He’s terrible with compliments. He fans a hand casually in front of him, and says, “You’re too kind.”

“I’m not. In fact, I think merely calling you ‘breathtaking’ is an absurd understatement.” 

Sicheng laughs awkwardly. “Are you trying to make up for all the suitors you think I should’ve had?” 

Emboldened by Sicheng playing along, Dejun straightens, increasing his height all of a half centimeter. “I’m more than happy to rise to the task.” 

Footsteps click across the granite floor behind Sicheng. Somehow, he picks them out of the bustle of the afterparty, and countless other footsteps. They ring out like a fork struck against a glass flute, sharp and precise. He tries to string together something to say, and fumbles out, “When you wrote your own material. What genres did you compose for?” 

“Mostly ballads,” Dejun says, his eyes flickering, and then Sicheng feels him. Physically, this time. He touches a hand to the small of Sicheng’s back, and it burns through the fabric of his suit, through skin tacky with stale sweat straight into the nerves of his spine. He shivers. 

“Who’s this?” Jaehyun rumbles out. Dejun’s smile has gone taut across his lips as his eyes bounce between Sicheng and the alpha beside him, who’s _touching_ his _back_. Jaehyun smells like musk and champagne, broiled together by some emotion he can’t--refuses to--give a name. Sicheng doesn’t trust himself to look at him. 

“This is Jaehyun,” he explains to Dejun, first. “Jaehyun, this is Xiao Dejun. Apparently our parents are familiar.” 

“Your parents?” Jaehyun’s voice is low, unimpressed. “Thought you and your folks weren’t on good terms.”

Sicheng blanches. “Th-that’s not true.” 

“Fuck you mean it’s not true,” he says. He’s talking entirely too loud, loud enough for Dejun to hear. “I’ve heard it all.” 

“That you have,” Sicheng sighs. This is too much. He’s had too much champagne (all of one glass) for this. He’s had a long fucking day, and he’s going into heat, and this is the _last_ \--fucking--“Let’s let bygones be bygones, shall we?”

“No,” Jaehyun utters quietly. His chin lowers to bump against Sicheng’s shoulder, and Sicheng finally--fatally--looks at him as he shakes Jaehyun off. Jaehyun’s hair is no longer slicked back, but rumpled like he’s been running his hands through it all evening, and his eyes rest with eerie calm on Dejun. “Not for people who _persist_ in disrespecting you.” 

His words belie the blankness in his stare. They’re venomous, some syllables near growled. 

“Okay,” Sicheng says, forcing an awkward laugh into it, “so you’ve appointed yourself my personal rights advocate. Good for you.” 

Dejun seems to have finally found words. “I’m sorry,” he says, splaying his hands out, “I seem to have been misin--I was told that--”

The knowledge of what he’s about to say shoots like ice through Sicheng’s veins. “Oh, no, you’re fine,” he says quickly. “This guy’s acting weird, there’s nothing--”

“You’re weird,” Jaehyun says to Dejun, cutting Sicheng off. “Did growing up a sheltered brat make you daft? Don’t you know when someone’s not interested?” 

“Excuse me?” Sicheng says at the same time Dejun _squeaks_. He’s never heard an alpha make a sound like that. He doesn’t have time to dwell on the novelty, though, as he shoves Jaehyun a few feet away. He loses a few degrees of body temperature for the effort. “How the fuck can you say that?” 

Jaehyun looks at him, finally, and any of the ice left in Sicheng melts in an instant. Jaehyun’s eyes _burn_. “I’m not stupid,” he says, stupidly. 

There’s almost no words for it. He doesn’t know where to start. “Sh-shut up,” he sputters. “It doesn’t matter if I’m not interested. I don’t care how smart you think you are. I can decide who I talk to, you’re not my fucking dad or my--whatever.” 

Jaehyun arches an eyebrow. No, Jaehyun is stupid. He’s fucking stupid if he thinks anything he just did was justified, in any respect. Sicheng wishes he had a doghouse to leave him in, because Jaehyun’s in it. His face feels hot enough to fry an egg. 

“Okay,” Dejun says, voice shaky, “I think I get it.” 

Sicheng catches him starting to back away, and he snaps his head around to face him. “You definitely do _not_ get it.” 

“That’s alright!” Dejun nods, a jerky, nervous movement, and turns on his heel to leave. “I’m just gonna--” 

Sicheng doesn’t pursue him. Why would he? Why pursue someone who doesn’t want to be pursued?

He lets out a long breath. He can still feel Jaehyun standing before him, so assured of the importance of his continual presence that it makes Sicheng sick. 

“Go,” he says, then louder. “Go.” 

He looks up. Jaehyun stares back, eyes dark. His tie is rumpled, and his suit jacket looks stiff from drying. He’s ridiculous, standing there giving off hormones like a pubescent alpha pig. 

“Go away,” Sicheng says with more calm than he feels. The people around them are staring. Starting to whisper. “Don’t show your face at home.”

He stomps away maturely, and isn’t sure if Jaehyun offers a neutral-toned “Okay,” in response, or if he just imagines it. 

Sicheng wakes to a fever and the sound of a familiar beep. His Pod Monitor tells him he should get up for some water. His heat has started, and hydration is important. 

He unwinds his stiff limbs, finding them sore from the previous day’s exertion, and looks blearily up at the small screen by the partition. His vision swims for a moment; his abdominals cramp. He can already feel sweat gathering at the base of his neck and inching down his spine.

This is where his life reaches its nadir, and Sicheng wishes with all of the will he can grasp that he was born a beta. Or an alpha. Alphas have it alright, and their rut suppressants are pretty good. Fewer side effects. Athletes can use them. 

Then Sicheng takes a deep, practiced breath and reminds himself that his heats aren’t actually that bad, and he should count his blessings. He can count them like sheep. One, he has a roof over his head. Two, he shares that roof with a strong, handsome, occasionally meatheaded alpha. Three, he’s (still) in love with said alpha, against his better judgment and despite any aforementioned qualities.

Four, he actually hasn’t seen Jaehyun since the afterparty. He doesn’t even know if he’s home, but where else would he go? 

Back to one of his omega dates, Sicheng’s id suggests unhelpfully, and ah. This is the really bad part. This is where he loses it a little, and starts thinking--doing--things that he shouldn’t. 

So he stands on wobbling legs, throws an oversized shirt over his uncomfortably damp boxers, and slides back to the partition with hopes that Jaehyun, on the off chance that he _is_ in the Pod, will not be awake to see him. 

His hopes are dashed immediately by the sight of Jaehyun’s back, clad in a threadbare nightshirt and hunched over the kitchenette’s stove. Sicheng hears sizzling that the soundproof partition would’ve obscured, scents fresh coffee, eggs frying over oil and spiced vegetables. Under that, Jaehyun _stinks_. 

Still, Sicheng’s stomach rumbles traitorously, before his eyes snap open and he slams the button to close the partition before he can alert Jaehyun to his presence. 

Jaehyun probably heard anyway. Alphas and their sharp senses, and all. 

“Shit.” Sicheng collapses back onto his bed and tugs his hands through his sweat-greased hair. His side throbs, and his tongue feels dry as scorched earth. That he came home so incensed that he forgot to grab a few water bottles, protein bars, and cooling packs for his bedside--he’s an idiot. He crawls across the bed to the short gap on the other side of his sleeping space and pries open one of the cabinets on the far wall, grabs the bottle of painkillers. He shakes it, and it doesn’t rattle. Nothing. “ _Shit_.”

Jaehyun might have some on hand. Or some of that pain-relief tea he mentioned. But then he’d have to talk to Jaehyun, and he’d really rather...not...do that. 

Sicheng rolls over, clutching his side, as the memory curls sourly in him. It makes him go hot with anger, and with other things, which in turn make him burn even more as he curses himself for feeling them. 

Jaehyun doesn’t _like_ male omegas. Doesn’t like _him_. Jaehyun’s…overly protective of his friends, maybe. Sicheng knows that’s true, at least. Must’ve been something in the champagne, making him go hotheaded and trampling over his filter. Though, he chose the worst possible time and place for it, in front of a person who could very well report back to his parents who then could report to Sicheng’s, informing them that yes, their worst fears have come true and Sicheng _did_ end up mating that alpha nobody he’s been rooming with for four years. When Sicheng hasn’t, actually, but who would believe that? 

Maybe he can show them Jaehyun’s aboMatch profile. Look, he _is_ a bachelor. 

You poor thing, they might say then, _tsk_ -ing at him knowingly. You deserve someone who thinks you’re _enough_. 

There’s a knock on the wall beside the partition, reverberating enough through the Pod walls that he hears it. Sicheng starts. Considers not answering, then relents with a sigh. Why delay the inevitable? Not like Jaehyun is going to eat him. 

He presses open the partition and immediately remembers the reason behind his instinctive reluctance. It’s not Jaehyun he has to be afraid of. 

“Morning.” Jaehyun’s voice is sleep-rough, his eyes ringed with dark circles. He thrusts out a chilled bottle of water, drops of condensation falling from its surface to the sleep compartment’s soft carpet. 

Jaehyun’s scent rushes in. Sicheng’s nostrils flare as he inhales, lips parting. His joints are already tender and weak--that’s why he has to fight to stay standing, isn’t it? 

He snatches the bottle from Jaehyun, accidentally brushing his hand in the process. “Thank you,” Sicheng says shortly, and his voice _doesn’t_ crack. 

“I made breakfast,” Jaehyun goes on. Sicheng’s stomach gurgles on cue, and a smile edges over Jaehyun’s lips for a moment. “You should eat something.”

Sicheng huffs. He feels woozy, bordering on nauseated, but the offer is tempting. “Fine,” he says. “Shower first.” 

“Don’t take too long, or it’ll get cold,” Jaehyun warns, but Sicheng’s already closing the partition. When has he ever taken long showers, anyway?

In the shower, he turns the water to ice and scrubs his skin raw. It doesn’t even begin to scratch the itch under his skin, nor does it touch his fever. The world spins and dips around him every few minutes, but he stays upright thanks to an iron grip on the shower rod and years of practice. Getting all the sweat off is nice, anyway, even if he’ll sweat it back on in five minutes. He grabs another oversized shirt and clean underpants, plus a pair of loose sweats that feel a little too stuffy, but will at least preserve his modesty in front of Jaehyun. 

Not like they haven’t paraded in their boxers in front of each other before, but heats are different. This one, especially, is different.

Jaehyun slides the plate in front of him before he can even sit down. He leans against the kitchen counter, sipping at his coffee, while Sicheng pokes at his rice with some inexplicable guilt, for a moment, then wolfs it down in the next. The food quells the rumbling in his stomach. In its absence, another hunger makes its presence known. 

He doesn’t know why Jaehyun is still at his back. He shouldn’t be here. Not _now_ , of all times. 

“You done?” 

Sicheng flinches. He pushes his plate away, stands jerkily. “Thank you,” he utters, not looking at Jaehyun. His heart thumps in his chest; distantly, he’s aware of an ache in his side, the slow churn in his abdomen. 

Without the food in front of him, he’s even more keenly aware of Jaehyun’s scent--it doesn’t just emanate from the man himself, it fills the Pod, clinging to the walls from him having lived here. Normally, Sicheng hardly notices, he’s so used to it. Then heats come, and awareness floods him, and he has to lock himself in his bed chamber to keep from pawing at the walls. 

Jaehyun coughs. “Don’t mention it. I…” He sweeps the plate out from in front of him and loads it into the Sanitizer. Sicheng listens to his movements, keeping his breathing careful and shallow. “I wanna make it up to you. For, uh, being a jackass. Last night.” 

“Okay,” Sicheng says. “Good effort.” He moves stiffly towards his bed, but Jaehyun plunges on. 

“A-and I thought I could explain. Not that that would change anything, but--!” 

But what? Sicheng turns and glances sidelong at him, and sees Jaehyun not looking at him but rather at the ceiling, a hand clutching the back of his neck. He looks pathetic. Not very alpha-like. Still attractive, unfortunately, since Sicheng has never cared much about that sort of thing, but the point remains. 

At once, his own frustration overtakes him. “Don’t bother,” he says, in a rush of anger and petulance. “It’s not that important. You said something stupid, alright. It’s not like I wanted to marry him.” 

Jaehyun’s eyes snap down to his. Sicheng turns his back to avoid his stare, clenching his fists and resisting the urge to bury his face in his hands. Holy shit, Sicheng. No one said anything about marriage. 

But that’s what his parents must have wanted, springing Dejun on him like that, isn’t it? They might resent him for this or that, but they still want to see him mated off before he gets too old and _unmarriageable_. That’s what any family of quality would want. 

“O...kay,” Jaehyun says. The word sounds careful, but shock bleeds through his tone anyway. “I respect that. I just wanted to…” 

The helplessness in his voice. Sicheng hates it. He hates it like the pressure building at the base of his skull, like the stinging welts his fingernails dig into his palms. He whirls around, faltering only a fraction of a second at Jaehyun’s wide-eyed expression. 

“Wanted what?” Sicheng snaps. His head _pounds_. “Huh? What do you want, Jaehyun? Made up your mind yet?”

“Yes, actually,” Jaehyun shoots back. He works his jaw as he steels himself, then plunges forward with eyes locked on Sicheng’s: “I was. Confused. I’m not asking for your sympathy. But--I didn’t understand what I was feeling...until it was too late.” 

“What?” Sicheng is ten times too hormonal for this.

“I was jealous.” Jaehyun’s knuckles whiten where they’re curled around the counter. “A-and I didn’t realize, because I hadn’t felt that way in so long. You’re so focused on your work, it’s not like I’m around to watch you get hit on--”

“Fuck off,” Sicheng mumbles. But Jaehyun appears, for all of an alpha’s superior auditory senses, to not hear him. 

“I just--I want you,” Jaehyun rushes out. His eyes seem to sparkle in the morning light, strangely damp. “And I’m sorry for being too dense to realize.”

Sicheng goes numb. 

This is bad. This is definitely a heat-induced fever dream, which means this one is already worst than the last five or so combined. And he is almost definitely going to collapse if he doesn’t get into bed in the next five seconds, because he can’t feel his limbs. 

“Shut up,” he manages, louder this time, before stumbling back towards his bed chamber and crashing through the partition the moment it slides far enough open. It seals behind him as he curls up atop his still-unmade bed, shivering.

Jaehyun doesn’t follow, because how could he? He doesn’t have biometric authorization. 

Sicheng gasps for breath, grasping through his mental haze for breathing exercises. He needs water. He reaches across the bed for the bottle he’d left on the table beside it, then lets out a soft gasp as he brushes his pelvis against the bed in the process. He’s hard. 

Shocker. Heats mean sweats, aches, and prolonged, uncomfortable arousal that can only be truly satisfied by an alpha’s knot. 

Jaehyun’s _I want you_ \--the imaginary one that his heat-addled omega brain conjured up--echoes in his mind, and Sicheng _throbs_. Forgetting the water, he reaches down to palm himself, even knowing it’s useless. Arousal blooms under the slightest touch. He strips off his sweats to touch himself through his boxers, just enough to tease, throws his head back against the pillows. He gasps. Dry mouth. He grabs for the water bottle with his non-dominant hand, spilling it over his neck and chest as he drinks and weakly grinds over his dick at the same time. 

The cool liquid sobers him just enough, and he stops abruptly. 

“Jaehyun,” he whispers, and throws himself out of bed. 

Jaehyun is pacing the length of the Pod, hair significantly more unkempt than it was moments ago. He stops, seeing the partition open, and widens his eyes as Sicheng barrels towards him and grabs his shoulders in trembling, sweat-soaked hands. 

Sicheng doesn’t know what he looks like, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“Say it again,” Sicheng demands. “What did you just say? Say it.”

Jaehyun’s eyes search his face wildly, and a flush stains his pale skin a delicate rose. “I want you.” He sounds almost embarrassed by it. Sicheng shakes him.

“Don’t fucking joke with me.”

“It’s not a joke,” Jaehyun insists. “I--I didn’t realize--”

Sicheng releases him, but doesn’t back away an inch. “You like female omegas,” he recites. “I’m in heat. You’re confused. Hormones--”

“I’m not confused!” Jaehyun says, shaking his head. “Not anymore.”

“I hate you,” Sicheng spits, and Jaehyun seems genuinely frightened by this statement; but Sicheng tells himself that Jaehyun deserves to be frightened. “You don’t get to pull this. You went on all of those _dates_ \--”

“Those were nothing! They didn’t feel like--the guys at work, they kinda peer-pressured me into it--”

“I didn’t say _anything_ ,” Sicheng goes on. “You came home stinking like other omegas every week, and then the moment someone shows interest in _me_ you--you--”

“Did you want to, though?” Jaehyun asks through Sicheng’s rage-induced fumbling. “Did you want to say something?” 

“What do you _think?_ ” Sicheng all but yells. “You couldn’t smell it on me? What kind of shit excuse for an alpha are you?” 

“A really, really shitty one,” Jaehyun says, too serenely, and oh no, there’s no mistaking the moisture in his eyes. He reaches out; and before Sicheng can flinch away, his hands rest on his shoulders, then trail up to cup the back of his sweaty neck. Jaehyun’s gaze locks him in place. “You’re gonna have to spell it out for me. Do you? Want me too?”

“Guess,” Sicheng breathes. And then he kisses him. 

Jaehyun kind of has it coming. He’s standing way too close (though, initially, that was Sicheng’s fault), and smells _way_ too good. Living with Sicheng for four years, one would think he’d learn not to spring information like this on an omega at the peak of his heat. But evidently, his very inconvenient, self-centered confessions could not wait. And now neither can Sicheng. 

He crushes their bodies together, inconveniently aroused parts and all, kisses him open-mouthed and dirty from the first second. Jaehyun meets him without a breath of hesitation. Sicheng’s hands scrabble along him, digging into the softness at his waist and tilting his jaw to where he wants it, so he can kiss him deeper and savor him like the sweetest of nectars. He knows immediately, like a ping at the back of his mind, that he’ll never be able to get enough. He’s buried the knife deeper and twisted it. _This_ will not pass. 

Sicheng draws away for breath, just a moment, and finds Jaehyun’s thumbs digging into his cheeks as he holds him apart. Sicheng blinks at him wide-eyed, not comprehending.

“Sicheng,” Jaehyun whispers. Sicheng realizes that he’s backed the pair of them against the counter, where Jaehyun was so innocuously sipping coffee before. There’s something warm and wet underfoot. He scents it--spilled coffee. “Are you--do you want this?”

The question is so insane that all sarcasm flees him. “Huh?”

“This. In general.” Jaehyun releases his face, sliding his hands down to brace against Sicheng’s shoulders. “Right now. Whichever.”

“All of it,” Sicheng whispers. “I want everything with you.” The honesty is acrid, horribly embarrassing. He’d rather kiss him. He moves to do so, but Jaehyun’s hands (curse his disproportionate alpha strength) hold him fast. 

“Okay.” Jaehyun is getting redder by the second. Together, they probably look like a pair of tomatoes. “Okay, that’s good. We’re on the same page.”

“Not yet,” Sicheng says. “You have to tell me-- _why_ \--how the fuck you--” Words seem so far away, compared to the surging immediacy of want and possessiveness and _fury_ that stupid, meatheaded Jaehyun didn’t realize he wanted him, too. 

“I will. Everything,” Jaehyun promises. He shakes him lightly, and Sicheng feels giddy with it. “Back in university, you had this boyfriend for like, a month--Taeyong, remember?”

“Yeah?” Sicheng utters, the same way one would say _duh_. “You hated him.”

Jaehyun laughs, and it’s harsh. “Hated his guts. I was so jealous.” 

Sicheng’s jaw drops. It’s like a gear clicking into place. “You piece of shit. And you didn’t--”

“Repressed the hell out of it,” Jaehyun says with a wry smile. “Wanted so badly to be a good little breeder. I was good at pretending--somehow acted like you weren’t the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.” Sicheng’s entire body _burns_ as Jaehyun laughs again. “ _Just hormones_. What a crock of shit.”

Sicheng’s head is spinning, and he can’t get a grip on it. “You only realized this last night?” 

“The night is long,” Jaehyun says, like it’s a good line, or something, and not the stupidest thing Sicheng has ever heard. Sicheng kisses him to shut him up. 

“I hope,” Sicheng says into his lips, between kisses, “you aren’t planning--on sleeping--anytime soon.”

At this, Jaehyun goes stiff. Sicheng gathers all of his willpower and wrenches himself away.

“What?”

“About that…” Jaehyun’s face twists, and he puts distance between them so they stand side by side rather than sandwiched against the counter. He grabs one of Sicheng’s hands, squeezing gently. “I think we should...wait.”

“Wait?” Sicheng frowns. His entire body recoils against the implication. “But you just--”

“I know,” Jaehyun sighs. He doesn’t let go of Sicheng’s hand, but he’s looking away, back up at the ceiling as if seeking divine guidance. “You’re in heat. You can’t really consent. Maybe if we’d discussed this beforehand, but--”

“Fuck that,” Sicheng says, incredulous. “I’ve been in love with you for--”

He stops. Jaehyun releases his hand and stares at him, eyes wide. 

“For...I don’t know how long,” Sicheng finishes lamely. He swallows. 

Well, better to have it out in the open, he supposes. Jaehyun’s mouth is hanging open slightly. Sicheng is starting to calculate how long it will take for him to pack up his things and the distance to the nearest bridge over water when Jaehyun grabs him, cradling his jaw and bringing their foreheads together. Sicheng makes a noise of surprise. 

“Me too,” Jaehyun whispers. He kisses him. “I love you. I’m so happy.” 

It’s not the first time he’s said it. They have as friends, after all; and even if Sicheng wished each time it meant something more, the phrase always warmed him from the inside out. 

Now, he feels like his throat is burning. 

It takes all of fifteen minutes for Sicheng to retract his confession. Jaehyun is not very persuasive, but he has his mind made up. 

“I don’t want you to regret anything,” Jaehyun tells him for the nth time, wringing his hands. “And even if you don’t think you would, it would make _me_ feel better.”

“Right,” Sicheng says, not even pretending not to sulk. “Let us schedule our lovemaking around your feelings, O Great One.” 

He doesn’t even blush at calling it lovemaking. He’s curled up on the couch, a damp cloth resting pointlessly on his forehead while Jaehyun pleads his case from in front of him. 

Sicheng considers pointing out, again, that his heats aren’t that bad, relatively speaking. Jaehyun’s concerns about consent and heat-induced states of mind are greatly exaggerated, he thinks--enough that Sicheng is half-convinced there’s something else going on. 

Maybe Jaehyun doesn’t actually want him, something in Sicheng’s brain suggests. Maybe he’s only been entertaining Sicheng out of pity, and plans to ditch him for some hot omega piece of ass from aboMatch as soon as Sicheng is out of sight. Offended by the thought, he glares up at Jaehyun, who points incredulously at himself as if unsure what he’s done to deserve such a look. 

There’s a conspicuous wet patch on the leg of Jaehyun’s sweats, evidence of Sicheng having sat there while they made out on said couch just minutes ago--and above that, there’s, well. Sicheng blinks away and scowls in frustration. He can’t look. If Jaehyun isn’t going to put out, then he’ll think about something else. Like how he can feel every millimeter of fiber on the throw pillow underneath his head, and how the cotton collar of his shirt feels tight enough to choke (it’s not). He’ll preserve his modesty, though, sweltering as it is, because he’s too lazy to get up and go to his bed chamber, and he thinks Jaehyun would probably object to him stripping down in front of him, too. Such misery. 

“Listen,” Jaehyun says pleadingly to his captive, miserable audience, “I’ll go out for a bit. Give you some space. Do you need anything? Pills, food?” 

Sicheng perks up a little at that, though not happily. “I’m out of painkillers.”

“Oh. Good.” Jaehyun coughs. “I mean, not good. But I’ll go buy some. Pain relief tea, too?”

“Sure. You do that,” Sicheng sighs, snuggling into the scratchy, uncomfortable pillow and resigning himself to his fate. If Jaehyun won’t get hands-on with heat relief, he may as well make himself useful elsewhere. 

Sicheng reverses this assessment the moment the Pod door slides shut behind Jaehyun’s retreating back. _No_ , his stomach tells him with a twist, and everything sharpens. He sits up. The Pod feels cavernous, and gooseflesh rises on his skin, though not from cold. He knows that he must make himself ready. 

“Jung Jaehyun,” says the disembodied voice of the Pod. Sicheng doesn’t need to be told. He unfolds his legs and makes his way towards the door. 

“I got the painkillers and tea, soup for later too.” Jaehyun holds up the bag, casting his gaze around the Pod in a split second before he alights on Sicheng. His eyes widen, free hand curling into a fist at his side. “ _Shit_ , you smell…”

Sicheng floats over, or feels like he does--he could be stumbling around like a drunkard, with how his awareness narrows to Jaehyun the moment he enters. He takes the bag out of Jaehyun’s hands, lets it fall to the floor, then wordlessly sets to stripping Jaehyun of his jacket.

“Y-you don’t have to,” he stammers out as Sicheng kneels to unlace Jaehyun’s shoes. 

“You were taking too long.”

He peels off the shoes and sets them aside, then stands. Satisfied, he grasps both of Jaehyun’s hands and pulls him close enough that he only has to tilt his head to kiss him. Their similarity in heights makes things convenient like that. That he’s allowed to do this thrills him, but he quells the feeling, just for now. He can relax and indulge his sentimentality later. 

“I would’ve let you fuck me the year we first met,” Sicheng tells him, centimeters between their lips. “We could’ve done it a thousand times by now.”

“Okay,” Jaehyun whispers. His eyes quiver. 

“It’s not fair. You only waited for a night.” Sicheng licks his dry lips. He’s parched in a way that water can’t touch. “I waited years.” 

“What’s one more night, then?” Jaehyun asks, but his tone is unconvincing.

Sicheng’s eyes narrow. “You ask too much. This is your fault.” 

Like it’s Jaehyun’s fault he was born an omega. But this doesn’t seem to occur to Jaehyun, and he nods as if possessed. “My fault,” he echoes. 

“So, take responsibility. Come to bed with me.” 

Jaehyun falters, and Sicheng’s squeezes his hands sharply. “I--I shouldn’t.”

“Why?” Sicheng bites his lip, real frustration bleeding through. Forget about visual evidence--he can _smell_ the arousal dripping off of Jaehyun. It’s not a question of want. “Don’t give me that shit about not being sure.” 

“You’d laugh!” Jaehyun blurts, and immediately appears to regret it by the pinch of his brows. Sicheng stares, some of his heat-induced brain fog melting away. 

What could possibly be worse than accidentally admitting he was in love with Jaehyun for years? Nothing. There’s nothing. This is stupid.

“Just say it,” Sicheng says. He folds his arms in front of him, waiting. 

Jaehyun averts his eyes. “I’ve never slept with an omega.”

Sicheng stares. Jaehyun glances at him, then away again. And then Sicheng laughs. 

“Shut up!” Jaehyun says, face already going red. “I told you you’d laugh, Jesus fuck.” He drags a hand down his face as Sicheng buckles over. 

“Ow. Fuck,” Sicheng hisses, clutching his sides. He finds himself smiling irrepressibly at his feet nonetheless, and he aims it up at Jaehyun. “You’re serious?”

“Why the fuck wouldn’t I be?” The corner of Jaehyun’s mouth tugs up even as he says it. “What, did you think I was sleeping with all those omegas I met from that app?”

“No,” Sicheng lies. But even then--“Never? Not even in university?”

“Nope,” Jaehyun says, popping his lips on the syllable. “I only dated betas, remember?”

Sicheng finds, upon examination of his memory, that this is true. “Huh. Weird.”

“Thanks,” Jaehyun says with a generous helping of sarcasm. “I can’t help it. You scare me.”

Sicheng quirks an eyebrow at him. “Thanks?”

“You plural. Omegas. I’m sorry, I just--” He claps both hands over his face, a half-sigh, half-groan dragging out of him. “The whole...dynamic. It’s intense.” He drops his hands and smiles wryly. “S’probably my parents. Seeing how they went at it even though they were scent bonded or whatever. All those hormones, just dials every little twinge of emotion up to eleven.” 

“Not all couples are like that,” Sicheng says, surprising himself with the soft way he says _couples_. It makes him flush. 

“I know.” He worries his lip between his teeth, then adds, “And it’s not so much that _you_ scare me, honestly. I scare myself enough.” Sicheng thinks he might be able to relate. A little. “You saw how I almost bit that kid’s head off.” 

“Xiao Dejun?” Sicheng says, laughing. 

“Yeah. Him.” Jaehyun bends to pick up the forgotten bag. “Anyway. Lemme put this shit away.”

“And then?” Sicheng prompts. Jaehyun glances back over his shoulder. 

“I dunno. Wanna watch a movie?”

“ _Fuck_ me,” Sicheng enunciates, and Jaehyun almost drops the soup. That would’ve been unfortunate. They’ve had too many spilled liquids already. 

There’s something at the bottom of the bag once Jaehyun has emptied the pills and box of tea. Sicheng notices this, because it’s dark blue and rectangular, so it shows through the plastic. 

“What’s that?” Sicheng wonders, and crosses to dig into the bag before Jaehyun can stop him. Condoms. Knot-sized condoms. Sicheng holds him up, inspecting them, and then looks at Jaehyun, who only stares back blankly and offers no explanation. “How convenient.” 

With all of his cards on the table, Jaehyun doesn’t even pitch a fight for propriety’s sake.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Sicheng tells him. “Just lie there. You think I’d hesitate to deck you if you did something I didn’t like?”

“You won’t have to deck me,” Jaehyun says, laughing. “Unless you’re into that. Then I’ll try to accommodate.”

When Jaehyun touches him, Sicheng doesn’t transcend, doesn’t become someone else the way he’d expected. Rather, it feels like he comes _into_ himself. The physical satisfaction becomes secondary to the emotional one; it feels like coming home. Not _here_ , specifically, in these sterile walls against a smog-blotted skyline. But, you know. Home can be a person.

A person who cums in two minutes and makes Sicheng promise to not rag him about it later, because it _was_ a long time coming, even if he only realized it recently; and it’s not as if Sicheng looks unhappy with his performance, anyway, once he’s sitting pretty on his knot (because there are worse things than your boyfriend being an omega-virgin and doesn’t Sicheng know it). But those are just details.

Ten breaks the news to him as they walk to their teaching gigs, clearly brimming over with excitement from having kept it in all weekend. The autumn wind whips against their faces, sending their hair askew and the ends of Ten’s scarf flapping at his back. 

“He asked me out after the afterparty,” Ten enthuses. “Oh my god. He was so. Cute. I’d never seen him blush so much. I didn’t know people _could_ blush so much. It’s like I saw a whole new side to him.”

“How’d it go?” Sicheng asks. 

“Fucking great. We went to the museum, and then for coffee, and then he walked me to my door like a perfect gentleman. I’m almost glad we didn’t end up fucking, because it was just adorable. But--” Ten grimaces. “He definitely had a boner when we kissed, so that gave me something to think about.” 

“You two are cute,” Sicheng says, and he means it. He feels somewhat self-satisfied to find out Ten and Hendery _have_ been dancing around each other--figuratively, not just literally--for a while, and it wasn’t only his overactive imagination. 

“Thanks,” Ten says, beaming. “I’m glad I have your blessing. So, which one of us is getting the talk?”

“Oh, definitely you.” Sicheng shrugs. “Hurt him and no one will ever find your body.” 

Ten salutes. “On my honor. What about you, Sicheng? Any new adventures? Didn’t hear from you all weekend.”

A smile curves Sicheng’s lips. He tugs at his turtleneck--a cozy, plush thing he reserves for days like this--to expose his pulse point to the air. Ten doesn’t notice immediately, but rather looks over in confusion when Sicheng doesn’t respond. Then he sees it. His eyes all but bug out of his skull. 

Sicheng lets the turtleneck slip back into place, and only realizes Ten has stopped walking about ten paces later. He turns. 

“Sicheng,” Ten breathes, just loud enough that it carries. He hurries up to meet Sicheng, and they fall back into step. 

The scabbed-over bite mark on Sicheng’s neck tingles. It throbs a little if he puts too much pressure on it, but in a good way. Sicheng imagines Jaehyun the overworked law clerk, somewhere across the city, pressing his fingers to the near-identical mark on his own neck and remembering. 

“You _animal_ ,” Ten says after a moment, voice as awed as it is teasing. “Who? Your roommate?”

Sicheng appreciates the hesitance to name him--given where they’d left off, anyway--but it isn’t necessary. “Who else?” he wonders. And really, it’s a stupid question. 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/winwinism).


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